“Rigby, tell me what you did in Mozambique? The London Times is calling it a massacre. It says the Rhodesians killed over a thousand freedom fighters.”
“Helen, I wouldn't believe anything in the Times. We had been getting intelligence about a terrorist camp operating in Mozambique. The insurgents have been sneaking over our border and laying landmines. Those landmines are killing children. Someone finally decided to do something. That's all.”
“Please tell me you didn't kill anyone?”
“Me? I was part of a demolition team.”
“Thank God. Will this lunacy ever end?” She daubed her eyes. “I'm glad you're not like the others.”
“For me, this war ends in two months,” I told her. But my tour of duty didn't end and as the war turned against us; I became one of the ‘others.' She never asked me about the war again. Men do God awful things in war. Grisly things we keep hidden. Sam was right, some days were not good.
Lupano was a village on the road. Rigby pulled up to the lone petrol pump and got out of his truck. He was surprised by the lack of children. The petrol attendant explained that the story of his journey had preceded him. Africans were wary of a man transporting a corpse. Rigby told him that he felt like Livingstone's trusted servant Susi, who carried the doctor's salt-cured corpse a thousand kilometers to Zanzibar to be shipped back to England for a proper burial. The man said he never heard of Livingstone or Susi. He politely asked Rigby to leave.
***
Sam Mabota's funeral turned into a theatrical extravaganza. People came from every corner of the country. The attendees pitched tents on the Croxford farm. At night, smoke from their campfires cast a halo around the moon. African music struggled against monotonous native rap. Rigby had a truckload of chibuku delivered to his farm. Mounds of empties scarred the landscape. Some men slept where they fell, too drunk to find their way back to their tents. The drunken celebration of Sam's life lasted for three days.
On the fourth day, the time came to put Sam in the ground. To the consternation of some, Sam was to be laid to rest in the Croxford family plot. Each attendee carried a small stick to the funeral. A black iron pot sat next to Sam's grave. If they had been treated fairly by Sam during his life, they deposited their stick in the pot. If Sam had wronged them, they would retrieve a stick. The length of the eulogy praising Sam's life would be directly proportional to the number of sticks in the pot. Not one stick was taken from the funeral pot that day.
Sam's five wives and thirteen children wailed and threw themselves on the ground. After his brother's death, Sam had married his sister-in-law for her protection as well as her children's. This was the African custom.
The honor of giving the eulogy was given to Rigby. He delivered the first part in Isindebele. He concluded by quoting Scott Holland's famous sermon in English. “It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was, I am I and you are you and the old life we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.” After the service ended, the mourners waited in line to shake Rigby's hand.
After the ceremony, Mabota's wives buried him under a flame tree in a sitting position facing the setting sun. The approach of the rainy season had only teased the farmers, but it rained that day. People said it was Sam looking out for friends. Whatever or whoever brought the rain, it caused a bursting forth of new life. Green grass shoots and wild flowers escaped hibernation. The scarred landscape was replenished as Sam's journey was concluded.
A sad silence lay on the rolling green hills of the Croxford farm. Three months after the funeral, Rigby continued to visit Sam's grave. He would sit quietly under the flame tree sipping his whiskey. From time to time, his mind would cast off in an unavoidable direction. His daydreaming returned to Max Turner. When he thought about Max, he fondled the spent cartridge he carried in his pocket. It was the bullet that should have killed the lion.
***
6
Palm Beach
Max Turner enjoyed using his mansion in Palm Beach to interview prospective attorneys. He loved seeing his guests swoon over his art collection. He especially enjoyed showing them a painting some unscrupulous art dealer had sold him at a horribly inflated price. Their jaw-dropping gasps were almost orgasmic for Max. If they weren't connoisseurs of art, he would take his guests down to his wine cellar where he would give them a lesson in the cost of rare French Burgundies.
Today, he would conduct the interview in the privacy of his den. The black walnut-paneled room was decorated with glassy-eyed animal heads and African art. Pictures of his jet and the Liti-Gator were mixed in photographs of Turner shaking hands with politicians.
He reviewed the prospect's résumé: Jesse Spooner graduated in the middle of his law-school class. Played football; all SEC cornerback. Considered turning pro, but opted for law school. Mother still works in the high-school cafeteria in Belle Glade. Father: unknown. Yes, Spooner would do. More importantly, he was black, which made him a perfect fit.
Max straightened himself as Jesse Spooner was led into his den by an English butler. He rose and a smile crept across his face. “Jesse, thanks for coming. I thought it would be fun to have our little chat here, rather than my office.” He shook Jesse's hand with a tighter grip than necessary and sat back down. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”
“A beer would be great, Mr. Turner.”
“See to it, Earl,” Turner said, motioning to his butler.
“Right away, sir,” Earl responded.
Spooner's eyes grew wide as he took in his surroundings. “Wow! This trophy room's bigger than my apartment. That lion is huge. They don't look that big on the Discovery channel. Did you shoot it, Mr. Turner?”
“I insist that you call me Max. That lion was a man-eater. And yes, I did shoot him. Unfortunately, not before it killed one of my trackers. May God rest his soul. We were hunting in Mozambique. It was a year ago, but it's still hard for me to talk about it. Anyway, enough about me, we're here to discuss your future. And I'd like that future to include Turner and Turner. Let's start with your questions. I know you must have questions.”
“Only one. Why me? You've got over fifty attorneys working for your firm. Most of them attended the best law schools in the country. My mother says you want to hire me because I'm black.”
“Your mother's a damn smart woman. I won't sit here and tell you color has nothing to do with our interest in you. Sometimes, black folks are more comfortable being represented by a black attorney. I think that's only natural. Jesse, the law business isn't for the fainthearted. Anytime you can get a competitive edge, you take it. We're here to get justice for our clients. If we make a little money in the process, well, that's all right too. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with becoming a fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year crusader working over at the county courthouse. If that's what you want out of life, go for it. But if you aspire to something a little more, shall I say, comfortable,” Turner said, opening his palms, “Jesse, we think you'd be perfect for us.”
“I could ask you a bunch of questions about your firm, but I might say something stupid. If you're sure you want me, I have only one question—when do I start?”
“What about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow works for me.”
“Good. Earl, bring up a bottle of 1996 Cristal,” he said, activating the intercom on his antique desk.
“Jesse, I do believe the good Lord's brought us together. Make no mistake about it—we're going to do great things together. Working for Turner and Turner will be the smartest decision you've ever made. You're destined for great things, my friend.”
They finished the interview with small talk. Jesse sensed Turner wanted to get rid of him. After saying goodbye, the butler showed Jesse to the door.
Max looked across his manicured lawn at Jesse Spooner's worn-out Chevy pulling out of his driveway. As he shuffled through his mail a hand-addressed envelope caught his attention. The lettering on the envelope
was his son's handwriting. Turner's pulse pounded in his ears. It had been posted from Kampala, Uganda on December 11, which was after his son disappeared. Maybe Arthur wrote the letter before he died. Or it could be another extortion attempt. He had difficulty breathing. As he read, his expression turned dark. He reread the last page, crumbled the letter into a ball and threw his champagne glass at the mounted lion. When he screamed, it was bloodcurdling.
“Mr. Turner—is anything wrong?” his butler asked. Turner didn't answer.
“Can I get you something?”
“What? No. I'm fine. What do you want?”
“Sir, Bob is waiting to see you.”
“Show him in. Have the maid clean that up.” He pointed at the broken glass.
Turner peeled back a section of carpet behind his desk. He spun the tumbler in opposite directions. The safe made a clicking sound. He pulled the door open and extracted four twenty-five thousand dollar packets. He closed the safe before Bob was led into the room.
“Sit down,” Turner demanded. After a pause, he began. “I want you to bug Spooner's apartment. Use the detective we just hired. I'm inviting Spooner to a cocktail party onboard the Liti-Gator Friday night. That should give Gillespie time to break into his apartment. Let's put a tail on Spooner. Everything about this guy seems to be, as advertised. There's too much at stake to take chances. Stay close to him, but not too close.”
“Is there anything else?”
“I want you to deliver this envelope to my ex-wife.” Turner put the money in a large manila envelope and slid it across his desk. “Call me if you come across any startling bits of information about Spooner.”
As soon as Bob closed the door, Max wrote the following wire instructions to his bank in Switzerland:
Dear Sirs:
This is your authorization to transfer one million dollars to Barclays Bank in Kampala, Uganda, Africa. Account number: 4344405T.
Maxwell Turner
Jesse Spooner checked his rearview mirror. His meeting with Max Turner had gone off without a hitch. It had been almost too easy. He punched the redial button on his cell phone. After he heard the dial tone, he entered his five-digit identifier. “It's Spooner. I'm in. Yes sir, every Friday at eighteen hundred. I understand. Goodbye.”
***
A formally dressed string quartet played softly on the fantail of the Liti-Gator. The music muffled the bouts of counterfeit laughter. Max met his guests at the top of the gangway. There were handshakes for the men and cheek-kissing for the ladies. The young wives of the junior partners flirted with Max. The older wives of the senior partners whispered to each other about the flirtations. Over the years, some of them had been intimate with Max in an effort to propel their husband's careers, but the passage of time played tricks on their memories.
Jesse Spooner straightened the lapels on his new Armani suit. Max said something to a man that produced disingenuous laughing. Finally, Max motioned him up the gangway.
“Jesse, I've got someone I'd like you to meet,” he said, putting his hand under Jesse's elbow. He walked him over to the railing where a woman stood looking out at the nightlights. When she turned around, Jesse felt his pulse quicken.
“Savanna, I'd like you to meet our newest addition, Mr. Jesse Spooner. Jesse, I must warn you, Miss Williams is one of the brightest legal minds we've ever hired at Turner and Turner. If you'll excuse me, I should get back to my other guests. Why don't you two get acquainted?” Max waved to a couple, indicating he would be with them momentarily. “What's wrong, Jesse, cat got your tongue? Lawyers should never be without words, it's our stock-in-trade. We'll visit later. Savanna, be a dear and look after Jesse.”
Spooner waited until Max was out of hearing range. His nervousness made the words slippery in his mouth. When he spoke, she started to speak at the same time. “Sorry, you were saying?” he said.
“I was going to ask you why you decided on personal-injury law. There are more lofty legal careers. Remember, I never said that,” Savanna said, smiling at Spooner.
“I could ask you the same question. As for me, I turned down the NFL for law-school. I need to take care of my mother before she works herself to death. We were so, as they say in the South, ‘po,' we couldn't afford the ‘or.' When Savanna laughed at his joke, Jesse seemed more self-assured as he continued. “As you know, Max's lifestyle can be very seductive. You sound like you're not happy working for Turner.”
“I'm happy enough.” Savanna was smiling when she answered him. “I have college loans to pay back. As far as working for Turner, well, let me see. I've been working for the firm for two years, so I guess I've become a regular. Most of the new attorneys don't make it through the first year. I guess it all boils down to if you don't mind being despised by just about everyone in the world, personal injury law is great.” Savanna stopped suddenly. “Jesse, what is it about you? You've got me telling you all kinds of personal stuff.”
Savanna's skin was black-satin smooth and her eyes were almond-shaped. She wore her hair pulled back in a professional bun, but it didn't detract from her good looks. “You stay put. I'll be right back.” He couldn't take his eyes off of her spherical bottom as she walked away in a self-confident glide.
Jesse lived with one underlying fear: The fear of losing his mother. As the man-child of the house, he would sneak into her bedroom at night to check on her. This is not the time to get involved, he thought. You've got a job to do.
“Have you seen enough of the sideshow?” Savanna asked Jesse.
“Will Max get pissed if we split?”
“Not really. His show-and-tell is over. You'll get used to these affairs. Say, why don't we have dinner? It'll be my treat. I'd like to do my part in helping your mother.”
“I'd love to have dinner, but I'm buying. You pick the restaurant. Better make it a cheap one. The new suit cleaned me out.”
“Where did you grow up, Jesse?”
“Fifty miles west of here in a town called Belle Glade. I'm afraid I've still got Okeechobee muck between my toes. When I was in high school I drove to Palm Beach with some friends. The cops pulled us over the minute they saw us.”
“Probably arrested you for having dirty feet,” she said, grinning.
***
Despite the tragedy in Mozambique, Helen Croxford remained in United States. She had good reasons. Her prearranged speaking engagements were intended to help her raise funds for her medical clinic. The other was to solicit pharmaceutical companies for drug samples. To save money, she opted to stay on her brother's yacht. The yacht was docked at a marina in West Palm Beach.
She was watching the evening news when she heard someone yell her name. She walked out into the cockpit and glanced up at the woman looking down at her. A light of recognition flickered, but she lost the thought when the woman spoke. “Sorry to be a bother. I'm looking for a Dr. Croxford.” The woman spoke with a silky southern drawl.
“I'm Helen Croxford. How can I help you?” She stretched to shake the woman's hand.
“Dr. Croxford, we have a mutual friend. I was wondering if you'd have time to answer a couple of questions about Africa. I promise—it won't take five minutes. If this isn't a good time, I could come back.”
“Now's as good as any. Watch your step. Let me help you,” Helen said, offering the woman her hand.
“Do I detect a southern accent?” asked Helen.
“I grew up in New Orleans. Listening to Florida Yankees has worn me as thin as summer cotton. I'm Lynn Allison. I'm delighted to meet you.” She accepted Helen's hand and stepped on the yacht's covering-board. “It must be wonderful living on the water.”
“The accommodations are courtesy of my brother,” she said, indicating she was speaking about the yacht. Why don't we go inside?”
Helen had heard the words “worn as thin as summer cotton” before, but she couldn't remember where. Lynn Allison was a beautiful woman. She was positive she had seen her before, but she drew a blank.
“I was only kidding
about the Yankee thing. You did say you were from the South.”
“I was born in Connecticut.”
“Now I've done it.”
“Nonsense. You mentioned something about a mutual friend?”
“I apologize for popping in on you like this. I'm afraid I'm a little frantic at this point.” “Can I offer you a drink?” Helen asked. “You're very kind. If that's white wine, I'll have the same. If it's not too much trouble.”
“Don't be silly. Now then, about our mutual friend,” said Helen, pouring the Chablis.
“How well do you know Maxwell Turner?”
“Max Turner? I'm afraid Mr. Turner is currently at the top of my shit list. Pardon my French.”
“I know things about Max that would even lower your opinion of him. He's done some pretty rotten things to me. I wouldn't be offended by anything you could say about Max.”
“Now I recognize you! You're related to the woman I met on Max Turner's yacht.”
“She's my sister, Ashlyn. She is—or rather was—married to Turner's son, Arthur. Do you remember that terrorist attack in Uganda? I'm talking about the one where eight tourists were killed.”
“Of course I remember. I live in Africa.”
“My sister survived that attack. Her husband, Arthur, was reported killed, although his body was never recovered.”
“Let me get this straight. Was your brother-in-law killed or not? I apologize for my insensitivity.”
“The Ugandan military says he's dead. So does the American ambassador to Uganda. I'm not so sure.”Lynn lowered her eyes. “Helen, Arthur's nothing like his father. My sister was devoted to him. I know your next question. What does my sister have to say about this? Unfortunately, I haven't been allowed to talk to my sister. Max has brain-washed her. I mean, about me. I'm at my wits' end.”
The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) Page 7